


Reaching out

by mangacrack



Series: Feanorian Incest Feast [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Feanorian OTP8, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Feanorian Week 2020, Fluff, Fourth Age, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: These days his son prefersMaedhrosorNelyafinwë. His mother-name has a bitter echo, according to him, for he is not comfortable with the new hröa.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Feanorian Incest Feast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676452
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	Reaching out

Maedhros' arms are curled around him in a tight, possessive grip. The embrace is stifling. The nose buried in his hair rubs circles into his skin, nudging Fëanor like a lion cub begging for attention while one long leg got thrown over his. Like a snake suffocating their prey.

Fëanor reaches back, grabbing a fist full of Maedhros' hair. His son hasn't moved beyond pulling out of him half an hour ago. Next to them, Maglor sleeps. Close, but not touching them and absolutely dead to the world. There is symbolism in it. Maedhros behind him, ready to crawl under his skin if he could just find a way and Maglor in front, just out of reach.

"I'm not leaving," Fëanor says. The position is uncomfortable, but it's obvious his son won't let go any time soon. "I might have to get up at one point to get clean, but I won't leave."

"I know," Maedhros grunts. Yet his finger dig deeper into Fëanor's skin. Bruising and far harsher than during their sexual activities. "I _know._ But it will take a while to sink in."

He cannot help the noise of distress that leaves his mouth. Fëanor loves his children, he loves them despite their scars, but he can barely bear it that there are wounds still causing his sons pain while he is unable to do anything about it.

So he writhes until he's lying flat on his back. Having a face to face conversation is out of question, because either of them likes to keep an eye on Maglor. In this, they are united in the fear he might vanish into thin air if they take their eyes off him for a moment.

Cupping Maedhros' cheek with his hand, Fëanor almost expects it to be dry and worn. Like he spends too much time in the sun, trapped in armour or worse - too exposed and without any kind of protection against the elements. But the skin is soft. Being reborn restored strength his son lost in the First Age, but the Elf who died in the volcano simmers through. Fëanor can see him moving, like a figure behind tainted glass, prowling and suspicious. He is thinner than the son in front of him, almost wraith-like in his paleness.

A lot like Maglor, with the exception that his secondborn has the body of a fine-tuned instrument, crafted and build after killing his way through several ages towards survival.

Fëanor wants to _scream_ and not in a good way because there is so little what he can do for his two children. The other five are ... better. Three of them died early before it got too bad and Ambarussa was always the most resilient of the entire lot.

Trying to find the right words is difficult. Maedhros seems so high-strung that plucking the wrong string could cause him to snap entirely.

He finally settles on, "I'd have slept with you at any point in your life, had I been alive to accompany you at your difficult journey, Maitimo. Regardless of your appearance, your deeds or the state of your mind."

He uses the name deliberately. These days his son prefers _Maedhros_ or _Nelyafinwë._ His mother-name has a bitter echo, according to him, for he is not comfortable with the new hröa. Fëanor respects that choice, sensations of displacement after reembodiment are not uncommon.

That, at least, he has a plan and a solution for. His other child on his left, on the other hand, is an entangled mess of issues, pain and violence.

Above him, Maedhros flinches before the tension finally leaves his body. He eases his frightened grip on Fëanor and takes a deep breath, propping himself up at one elbow to study his father and his lover with grey and very ancient eyes.

It seems like a miracle, but Fëanor witnesses as Maedhros accepts his words as truth and _believes him._

He puts his hand on Maedhros' chest. It expands and under the ribcage is a strong, beating heart.

This is all Fëanor needs and he pulls his son down for a kiss because there is a lot what he cannot portray with words.

* * *

  
  


They keep kissing. Hands roam over naked skin, unhurried and soft. Fëanor tries to pour as much love into Maedhros, whispering praise and love confessions as he can when Maglor stirs. Fëanor pulls away a little to pay attention to his other son. The hair is ruffled, falling over the broad muscles shoulders. Sharp eyes watch them carefully while Maglor hugs the pillow like it's his only defence.

"You have weird conversations in your head," he rasps. "Can't you settle on that Neylo is beautiful and still the best of us?"

As his father Fëanor hasn't gotten used to it yet that Maglor sleeps with his eyes closed. He can drop like a log and be utterly still, but this is proof enough that his mind is far from unaware. A habit born from living among Men for thousands of years.

"There's enough for you as well, Makalaurë," Fëanor says.

He reaches across the bed, unable to bear the distance between him and his other child for a second longer.


End file.
